


Maybe you shouldn't have.

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Neglect, Pre-Despair, Pre-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:10:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: But you did.





	Maybe you shouldn't have.

Maybe you shouldn't have called everyone all those names, but here's the thing; _you did._

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed everyone away, but here's the thing; _you did._

Maybe you shouldn't have let mahiru get close, but here's the thing; _you did._

Maybe you shouldn't have fallen in love with her, a girl in love with another, but here's the thing; _you did._

Maybe you shouldn't have told fuyuhiko about seto, but here's the thing; _**you did.**_

 

  
It's starts like this; you've always been a crybaby.

You're mother tries to stop it, yelling and shouting for you to just _shut_ _up_ , but that just makes it flow more, when you're upset. The only thing that seems to calm you down is the japanese candy your dad carries, for it tastes like comfort. Your mother calls you a spoiled brat, as if you only cried to get something sweet, as if you manipulated them. You didn't–those tears were real, but they don't have to know that.

  
The gardens at your house are beautiful, pretty, stunning. No one likes it when you play in the gardens, but you do anyways, embracing the mud. You go there when you're mad–another can't do this, can't do that–and take the flowers in your hand, squashing them. It's almost peaceful, like this, you suppose, as you destroy the flowers one by one, without really meaning to. There's something about seeing beauty crushed that's intriguing; you stomp and kick until you're the only flower left standing, because you know that if you don't kill them first you'd get pricked by their thorns, and you've been pricked too many times to risk it.

  
The first time you hold a show nothing happens. Nor the second, or third. But it's at the fourth that a man older than you approaches you, trapping you in a corner with no escape.

He calls you _pretty_ and it's _disgusting_.

No one believes you when you tell them, your mom just scoffed, turning away from your sniffling form.

That night when you dance, it's a dance of destruction, through the garden, smiling all the way so you smash all that's _pretty_ under your foot.

 

 

Eventually you learn to keep everyone at arm's length, you learn that the only way to love someone is if you can look down on them, if they're weaker than you. You learn that the only way someone could love you is if you're weaker than them.

So you use your tears as weapons, learn how to make your words cut in deep, making the world your slave and when they start to complain, making them feel like _you're_ the helpless on here, weak and crying.

And you dance, a dance of deception.

 

  
You pretend all of the tears are fake.

 

  
You're scouted for some bullshit talent school and you want to decline; but you _hate_ it here, hate her, and you decide that _any_ shitty school is better than this hellhole of a home, so you go. And you act the same; harsh, harsh, _harsh_ , you act like a _brat_ because that's what you _are_ , what you've _always_ been, because your mother called you one so many times you decided, fuck it, it must be true, go big or go home, you'll be the _most bratty around._

  
And you don't _trust_ these people, you _hate_ them, they're trying to _trick_ you with _smiles_ and _pleasantries_ when all they want to do is open you up and _rip you to shreds._ And you _know it_. So you tear them all to pieces before they can so much as touch you, you hurt and you hurt and you _hurt_ and you _smile_ because it's _fun_.

You smash all of the stupid, pathetic _bugs_ under your fingers, squish squish squish.

  
But somehow, _somehow_ , despite all of your efforts, she still effortlessly worms her way into your heart. Around her you feel _warm_ and _safe_ and you're **scared** because you **trust** her. You shouldn't trust her. You _can't_.

But you _do_ , and more than that, you _love_ her, with her freckles and sunshine smiles, camera in hand and grey eyes shining, you love her, _you_ _love_ _her_ , you really do.

 

She doesn't love you.

 

Seto. _Seto_. You hate that name; hate _her_. She's ugly, really, the most _ugly_ girl you've ever seen. Her hair is a god awful shade of green, eyes narrow and purple. What does _she_ have that _you_ don't? _Nothing_. She's nothing but a _reserve course_ student, talentless and pathetic, tarnishing the name of this school. She is the _scum_  at your feet, and you _hate_ her. You hate her _so much._ You want her to _**die**_.

 

When she murders natsumi, you don't hesitate to tell, giddily stringing together the story to fuyuhiko, and she's dead by morning.

You smile.

 

  
Here's the end of the story; mahiru ends up dead, and _it's your fault._

You think of all the things that _maybe_ could have been.

 

  
You shouldn't have done a lot of things, but here's the thing; you did them anyways.

  
Because you grew up with no love, and when you get it, you _cling_ to it, desperate to stay stable.

  
But eventually, enviably, your fingers slip, and you _fall_.

 

 


End file.
